Angel of Music
by yaniguchi
Summary: Phantom of the Opera AU. An "opera ghost" has haunted the Opera Garnier for years and has served as a mysterious vocal coach for the opera's junior star, Arthur Kirkland. When the opera house is financed by the upstart patron Alfred F. Jones, the Phantom of the Opera begins to display his discontent at how his theatre is being run. FrUK/USUK.
1. Chapter 1

**Paris, France**

_1886_

* * *

><p>The boy could not breathe.<p>

_Breathe in… breathe out… in… out…_

His lungs shuddered beneath his chest as he struggled to breathe in the confines of the burlap bag. He tried to keep his gasps to a minimum, lest the ringmaster hear him. Despite his struggling gasps, he did not dare lift the bag over his head. The boy's dirt-encrusted fingers clumsily grasped at the edges of the bag to keep the thing in place.

He could hear the taunting jests of the crowd already. Their screaming laughter threatened to shatter his eardrums and burst out of his very mind.

_Look at his face!_

_Oh, poke him with that stick again—look, he crawls like an animal!_

The boy's chest shuddered again, and he pulled the burlap sack further down his face. He screwed his eyes shut, but the images of the taunting crowds appeared on the backs of his eyelids. Women, men, children—it did not matter. It seemed that all throngs of Parisians traveled just outside of the city to gawk at the Circus of Freaks.

"Francis!"

The ringmaster's voice cracked in the air like a whip, and the boy felt the sting of it before he felt the man's walking stick crash into his shoulder. He fell to the dirt and clawed at the bag over his head, making sure it did not move. Despite his efforts, the ringmaster reached a fat hand through the bars of the cage and yanked the burlap sack off of his head.

"The show is starting, get up," the man barked. When Francis hesitated, the man hit him with the stick again. "Do as I say, boy!"

Francis pawed at his face and sprawled his fingers out in an attempt to cover his face. He staggered to his feet. In the dim light, wearing only a rudimentary loincloth, he only felt naked without his burlap sack over his head. Tears began to well up in his eyes, but he hastily wiped it away with the back of his hand. He could not afford to let the ringmaster see him crying.

"Monsieur," Francis gasped, pulling at the ringmaster's sleeve. "I'm thirsty."

He should have known better. The man simply pulled his hair with an angry, fat fist.

"You dare make demands of _me_, boy?" he hissed. His breath reeked of cheap wine. "Shut your mouth and do your job. We'll see if you deserve a drink after this, eh?" The ringmaster shoved Francis back into the dirt before he left to wave the circus-goers toward his cage. The boy scrambled to the other side of his barred living space and stared up at the people who approached him.

Francis' hands moved slowly at first, trembling as they moved to cover his ears. However, as his master commanded, he kept his face up so that the attendees could see it. He always thought it so strange that these people paid money and traveled so far just to see his face and mock it. He could not stop his tears now.

Their words began to blend together—a horrific melting pot of insults and ridicule.

_Make him do something… Poke him with that stick!_

Almost immediately, he felt one of them prod him on the back with a walking stick. He fell to the dirt and crawled to his feet, much to the amusement of his audience. One of the women shrilled with laughter that could be heard over the throng of mockery. Francis backed into the corner of his cage in an attempt to avoid them.

He prayed that they would move on to the next "specimen," as the ringmaster called them. _Please move on,_ he thought. _Please move on. Please move on._

In that moment, a soft hand grazed his arm, and he whipped around to see who touched him. To his surprise, a girl, only a few years older than him, met his eyes. Her eyes reflected the sadness that Francis felt welling inside his chest. For a moment, he had forgotten that he even had an audience.

The girl said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes. As did the sharp twine that she placed in his palm.

Suddenly, Francis felt a surge of courage rise within him.

The crowd had begun to move away, save for the man that hit him with a walking stick earlier. His trembling hands moved away from his sides, and he took a courageous step toward the other side of the cage. All of the swelled anger inside of him began to boil over—all of the rage and contempt he held for the people who mocked him for days on end finally exploded.

In a flash, he wrapped the twine around the man's throat and pulled hard.

"H-Help!" the man gurgled. "Help me!"

Francis did not stop. Not even when the ringmaster rushed over at the sound of the man struggling against the bars of the cage. The remaining spectators screamed and ran away from the cage, and the ringmaster had to swim through the crowd of people to reach the cage. He pulled at the dying man, but by the time he freed him from Francis' grasp, the boy had already killed his prey.

"You… You monster!" the ringmaster spluttered.

He reached his fat hand through the bars and unlocked the cage before he swung the door open. Francis did not hesitate. He stole the opportunity to slip through the ringmaster's legs as fast as he could, and he dashed out of his prison. Before he slipped out of his grasp, he snatched his burlap bag from the man's fat hands.

"This way!"

It was the girl who had given him the twine earlier. Francis reached out for her hand and grasped it between his fingers; he had trusted her thus far, it was only to his benefit to trust her further. The girl pulled on his hand and ran in the opposite direction, toward the center of the city.

"Where are we going?" Francis hollered.

"Somewhere safe," the girl called back to him as they ran. She turned around briefly and smiled at him. "My name is Elizaveta. I promise that you can trust me, all right?"

"A-And I'm Francis," the boy stammered in reply. "I trust you."

They seemed to run for hours. Francis' legs burned with fatigue, and he was about to collapse on the ground when Elizaveta finally stopped. She entwined her fingers between his and squeezed his hand reassuringly. Francis' chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. He had never been a decent runner, and until then, he had never run so far (and so fast) in his life.

He looked up with wide, frightened eyes at the building that loomed over them. He had never seen anything like it.

"It is the Opera Garnier," Elizaveta breathed. "You'll be safe here."

"Here?" Francis asked. "I cannot go in there! They have already mocked me enough—"

"Just follow me," the girl insisted. When Francis did not believe her, she tugged on his hand. "It is all right, my father works here. I promise you'll be safe. Or would you rather go back to that ringmaster of yours?"

Without a second thought, Francis shook his head. However, he hurriedly pulled his burlap sack over his head again, to hide his face. Elizaveta led him toward the building, and to the sewers. Francis had heard that there was an entire series of crypts beneath the city of Paris, and he supposed that one of the crypts led to this opera house. Still, he hesitated before entering.

"Elizaveta," he began. "Thank you. For helping me."

Elizaveta shook her head.

"Come on," she said, smiling. "We have no time to lose, Francis!"

With that said, the two children ducked into the crypts beneath the Opera Garnier.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Sorry that this chapter is so short! I wasn't sure how to split this, so the next one might be a little long. But heeeere's Alfred!

* * *

><p><strong>Opera Garnier, Paris, France<strong>

_1909_

* * *

><p>Paris was exactly how Alfred imagined it to be; it was bustling and artistic—the kind of city that seemed like it had bones that creaked with age and tales that would fill a number of history anthologies. He took a deep breath and stepped out of the carriage before the chauffeur could even open the door for him. He had been so eager to see the opera house in person—until then, he had only seen its likeness in pictures.<p>

None of the pictures did the building justice.

"Wo_wie_," Alfred breathed.

He craned his neck to see the opera in its splendor. The building towered over him. In fact, it towered over the other buildings in the square. He understood now why it was colloquially known as the "Garnier Palace"—it looked like it housed a king.

"Shall I take your things to the apartment, Monseigneur?" the chauffeur asked.

"Ah, yes, thank you," Alfred stammered. He rifled through his breast pocket to find the francs he set aside as a tip. It must have been generous, for the old man who drove the carriage met his gaze with stunned eyes. Alfred simply waved him off. "I want to get a good look at the city after I'm finished here, all right? So take the rest of the day off."

The chauffeur nodded his head eagerly and did as he was told, "M-Merci, Monseigneur!"

Alfred wasted no time. He buttoned his coat and crossed the busy street in front of the opera house. He jogged up the steps, only stopping to get a better look at the decorations on the façade of the house. The building was stunning. Though the opera house had only been completed within the last half-century, it felt as old and magical as the city did.

He shoved the front doors open and peeked around.

There must have been a rehearsal happening. Some of the troupe members were scampering around in their costumes, moving set pieces and applying makeup. A couple of scantily-clad women squealed when they realized that he had entered, and they swiftly ducked around a corner. Alfred cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks grow warm.

"Hello?" he called out. "Herr Edelstein? Herr Beilschmidt?"

There was no answer. Alfred suspected as much—he could barely distinguish anyone else's voices over the clamor of rehearsals. He dove into a group of dancers and flashed his best smile at them.

"Monsieur?" one of the dancers squeaked.

"Can you tell me where I can find Herr Edelstein and Herr Beilschmidt?" Alfred asked.

The dancer he addressed flushed red with embarrassment, and for a moment, Alfred thought that she did not understand him. However, when she pointed a slender finger in the right direction, he nearly breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you!"

After pushing through a throng of singers and set artists, he finally found the auditorium. A collection of dancers were neatly organized on stage, dressed in flamboyant costume. Even more impressive were the giant, moving elephant props they managed to craft on the stage. Alfred was taken aback—how were they able to create such things? Theatre was truly magical.

"Excuse me!" Alfred called out. "I'm looking for the directors?"

Two men standing on the outskirts of the stage immediately snapped around. One of them—tall, blond, and serious—nodded his head at Alfred, but said nothing. The other waved Alfred over and attempted to shout over the noise, "Ah, yes, here we are!" In one swift moment, he spun on his heels and addressed the actors and musicians, "Take a five minute break, and meet here for the ballet rehearsal when you are finished."

The tall blond man standing next to him began walking toward the stairs.

"Mr. Jones?" he asked.

"Please, just call me Alfred!" he shouted in reply, politely pushing through the actors in order to shake the director's hand. He dashed up the stairs and grabbed the tall director's hand—the man's grip was bone-crushing. "I'm sorry to interrupt rehearsal like this."

"Oh, no matter, we're sorry not to have met you at the door," said the bespectacled, shorter director. "I am Roderich Edelstein, and this is Ludwig Beilschmidt. We are the new directors of the Opera Garnier."

"It's a pleasure to meet you both."

"I pray your voyage to Paris was pleasant?"

"Oh, er, yes," Alfred lied, recalling the long, uncomfortable boat ride. Quickly changing the topic, he motioned toward the grand auditorium with his arm, "What a marvelous opera house you have here. I'm not sure I've seen anything so grand in all my life!"

"Yes," Roderich sighed. "This pretty opera cost a pretty penny, as it were… That said, we're all too grateful for your patronage, Alfred. But I digress—we called you here to give you the briefest of tours. Please, walk this way."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** There we go- a longer chapter for you guys! ^^ As a warning, I'm gonna be jumping around between POVs in this story, so don't worry- we'll see Arthur's point of view in the next chapter! Until then, enjoy~

**EDIT:** Grazie, ElizabethScaffie, for the correction on Lovino's Italian! ^^

* * *

><p>Ludwig and Roderich showed Alfred all of the nuts and bolts of the theatre, and they even let him see a brief dress rehearsal of the ballet portion of their current production. When the actors broke off into their various sections to practice the dance portion, the directors walked him across the stage, introducing him to the starlets of the theatre.<p>

Alfred's eyes lingered on a flamboyantly dressed man in the center of the stage.

"That must be the star of the production," he chuckled. The way that the man pranced between makeup artists, waving his hands and making all sorts of demands convinced him of that. He spoke so rapidly that Alfred could barely catch what language he was conversing in—it sounded Italian.

Ludwig grumbled under his breath. Apparently Alfred had supposed correctly.

"Yes, that is Lovino Vargas," Ludwig said.

"Oh, where did his pesky younger brother go off to?" Roderich sighed. "He is supposed to be practicing with Elizaveta, the little brat…" He glanced around the room once before pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. Without any cue, Ludwig dashed off in search of the pesky younger brother in question. Alfred stifled a laugh; chaotic rehearsals must have been the norm.

"Elizaveta is a singing trainer, then?" Alfred asked.

"Oh no, she is our ballet instructor," Roderich corrected. He lifted a hand and pointed toward a tall, elegant woman in a long gown. "She is… incredible, to be precise. We are fortunate to have her—she has worked in the opera for _years_." The director began to say something else about her, but Alfred's mind was long gone…

… because that's when he saw _him_—Arthur Kirkland.

Alfred could hardly believe it. It had been at least a decade since they had last laid eyes on each other. Memories of childhood playdates flashed through his mind, and a dreamy smile tugged at his lips. _So he ended up pursuing dance after all,_ he thought. It made him glad to know it. Arthur had a natural gift for the performing arts.

He wondered if—no, he _hoped_ that Arthur would remember him. Alfred's heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to talk to Arthur personally—to see if they could rekindle the friendship they once held dear.

Arthur looked so engrossed in his rehearsal, and far too busy for a one-on-one chat… But it was no matter. Alfred admired him from afar. Arthur moved with such finesse. His face was so serious—his eyes fixed on Elizaveta as he practiced the routine. He seemed to glide across the floor; though the ballet was complex, he made it seem completely effortless. Alfred sighed in admiration.

"Ah," said Roderich. "I see you have noticed the Madame's favorite student." His voice sounded curt and rehearsed, like he had said the words very often. "Yes, Kirkland dances rather well, does he not?"

_Rather well?_ Alfred scoffed to himself. _That's the understatement of the century, Mr. Edelstein._

"He's a natural," he gushed.

"Elizaveta insists that he is," Roderich replied, tilting his head in thought. "Perhaps I have not seen enough of his work to judge for myself. Don't forget, Alfred, I am almost as new to this theatre as you are." He clapped his hands together twice—the sound rang out above the commotion, and he garnered the troupe's attention in less than a few seconds.

"Everyone please welcome our new patron, Mr. Jones, to our opera."

The troupe applauded him courteously, and Alfred simply bowed his head once and waved.

"It's an honor to be here, really," he chuckled in an attempt to diffuse any awkwardness. He may have been the patron, but he didn't want his purse to speak louder than himself. He wanted to build a friendly rapport with everyone—especially with a certain dancer in particular.

His eyes wandered to Arthur again, and this time, their eyes met. It was only for a moment, but Alfred felt his chest stir with emotion. Not knowing what else to do, he flashed a grin, hoping that he would get a similar reaction from the other man. To his dismay, Arthur quickly shifted his gaze to the ground. The smile died on Alfred's face.

_Have you forgotten me already, Arthur?_

He composed himself before continuing, "I'm looking forward to the production tonight, everyone. But please, don't let me keep you! I'm sure you have a few more dress rehearsals to do before tonight's show."

"Ah, yes, we've reserved a box seat for you, Alfred. You will have a wonderful view of the performance tonight," Roderich explained. "Would you care to see a small portion? Something to pique your interest, sir?"

Alfred grinned in response, "I'd love to."

* * *

><p>"Antonio! Antonio, what did I tell you? Stand here, <em>pezzo di merda<em>! Are you even _listening_ to me?"

This was the third time the sequence had been interrupted by Lovino. Alfred couldn't help but chuckle as he watched the Italian star bark orders to his fellow performers. Roderich barely had a chance to chime in before Lovino would quickly shout something else over him.

"Shall we begin again from the top?" Roderich asked in agitation.

"_Si_," Lovino humphed, "And make sure that no one messes this up, eh?"

When the orchestra began to play, Lovino moved to his designated spot beneath the colored light and stiffened. Alfred thought he looked rather uncomfortable in his giant, war general costume. Apparently he was, for the song he began to sing sounded strained, and uninspired.

Of course, Lovino was a talented singer—he was surely trained by the best opera singers in Italy. His tenor voice was smooth, and it rang with a certain precision that suggested he had rehearsed the song many times. Despite that, Alfred didn't _feel _anything when listening to him sing. He hoped that the song would transition into something a little more dramatic—or perhaps a duet.

However, the aria was cut short.

"Lovino, move!" Antonio cried, pulling the singer out of the spotlight.

A few wooden beams suddenly fell down from the top of the set, and they crashed against the floor of the stage. It happened so fast—Alfred lurched forward in his seat and his eyes went wide. Where on earth did those beams come from? His eyes probed the stage to make sure that no one was hurt—specifically Arthur.

"Is everyone all right?" he called out, standing up from his seat. He received no answer, but nobody appeared to be hurt. Alfred's eyes paused on Elizaveta. She remained frozen on the other side of the stage, and her gaze was directed upward, into the rafters. _What is she looking at?_ By instinct, Alfred followed her gaze, but he found nothing there.

"_Che cosa?!"_ Lovino screamed. His headpiece had gone askew and his eyes were ablaze with fury; he looked absolutely livid. "What is this? What happened? Ro—Ugh! _Beilschmidt! Edelstein!_ What is the _meaning_ of this?"

"I'm sure it was merely an accident, Lovino," Roderich stammered. He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. "We will search for the cause immediately, don't fret. Until then, why don't we take a break and then—"

"An _accident_?" spat Lovino as he ripped the headpiece off. "I don't _think_ so, Edelstein. This is not the first time something like this has happened, you know? And until you fix this godforsaken hellhole, _I_,"—he motioned to himself overdramatically—"will not be singing!"

"L-Lovino, I beg you—"

"Enough! Antonio, _andiamo_!"

In a huff, Lovino turned on his heel, gathered the robes of his costume, and stormed off backstage to what Alfred supposed was his studio. The man named Antonio did not waste a moment following after him.

The entire stage was quiet for a few moments. It appeared that no one knew what to say. Alfred was about to chime in when another voice beat him to it.

"Herr Edelstein."

It was Elizaveta, calm and gentle amongst the chaos of the failed dress rehearsal.

"I have a message… from the Opera Ghost."

The words brought a different sort of hush over the troupe. Some of the members began whispering to each other, looking frightfully up into the rafters. Alfred furrowed his eyebrows in thought. It sounded like something straight out of a children's story, but the way that the troupe reacted made him think otherwise. Was there really an "opera ghost" who inhabited the opera house? Was _that_ the person Elizaveta was searching the rafters for?

Of all of the troupe members, Roderich seemed the least impressed with the announcement.

"Opera ghost," he sighed, rubbing his temple. "Elizaveta, we've been over this…"

"He welcomes you to his opera," Elizaveta continued, without missing a beat. "And he courteously asks that you leave his box—Box Five—empty during all performances. And… he requests his stipend by the end of this week."

"His stipend? _His_ _opera?_"

"Yes. In the past he was paid at least 15,000 francs per month, Herr Edelstein," Elizaveta explained as she folded the message neatly in half. Roderich sighed loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Alfred was still too nervous to speak up.

"Well, if someone would be so kind to tell our _opera ghost_ that he will not have his stipend by the end of the week," the enraged director began, "Because we have to refund a full house, considering we have just lost our _star performer!_"

Alfred could have groaned aloud. Was there truly no understudy for Lovino? Surely they could have anticipated something like this? In the absence of a singer to play the lead, there was no choice but to refund all of the tickets.

"Herr Edelstein," Elizaveta said. "Might I suggest… Arthur Kirkland? He has been trained very well, sir."

Roderich frowned in doubt, but Alfred's heart leapt at the thought.

"A dancer? Playing the lead?" Roderich asked. "I have never heard of such a thing."

Elizaveta grabbed Arthur's hand and pulled him forward, much to the dismay of the latter. Alfred noticed that Arthur's face quickly turned red with embarrassment, and he barely looked the director in the eyes, "He is a very talented singer, I guarantee it. Won't you listen to him sing at least once?"

Roderich paused for a moment before waving Arthur forward.

"Go on then, Kirkland," he insisted. "Show us."

"Yes, sir," said Arthur.

The pianist in the orchestra played the first few notes of the aria, and the orchestra slowly joined in. Alfred did not take his eyes off of Arthur, even for a moment. He smiled even before the man began to sing.

"My god," Alfred murmured in awe.

Arthur sang like the song was written for his voice. Unlike Lovino, who had directed the flow of the orchestra with his commanding tenor, Arthur's romantic vibrato weaved between the strings and the winds of the accompaniment. It sounded subdued and passionate—like the tragic man in the production.

"Enough," said Roderich, holding up his hand. Alfred nearly cursed the man aloud for stopping the song, but when he saw the look of sheer awe on the man's face, he held back.

"Kirkland," the director breathed. "You _must_ play the lead in the performance tonight."


End file.
